The Secret Life of Walter Mitty

 
Beauty doesn't ask for attention. ~ Sean O'Connell

My friend and co-author, Dr. Lynn Smith and I used to talk at length about what we called the "Walter Mitty personality type." Risk-aversive, detail-oriented, traditional (though not necessarily conservative), and inclined to play by the rules. Good, solid people like Bilbo Baggins, who aren't likely to rush out their front door in pursuit of adventure. Their secret is, they'd like to. They dream about it, but they can't let go. Until they have to.

This is the story line for the marvelous film, The Secret Life of Walter Mitty (2014), starring Ben Stiller. By day, Mitty is a quiet, unobtrusive supervisor in the photographic negative department of Life magazine. At any other time, his imagination may have him miraculously rescuing damsels in distress or besting arrogant, narcissistic asses like the one in charge of transitioning Life from a print to online format. In daydreams, he's everything he's not from 9 to 5: creative, brave, articulate, and appealing. In life, he can't even bring himself to speak to the woman who's stolen his heart.

Whatever author James Thurber originally intended, this particular film version depicts a journey of the soul. Mitty is an ordinary guy who's become a worker bee. He contributes, he's efficient, he does his job very well. His life has purpose but no passion. He'd like it to and his daydreams are filled with it, but he's ambivalent. Even his e-Harmony profile is incomplete. He's at a crossroads and needs a guide, a mentor, someone who can show him how to make his own choices and live his own life.

Enter Sean O'Connell, played by Sean Penn. O'Connell is a photographer of the old school. He still uses film and submits his photos for publication by snail mail. He doesn't own a cell phone and would probably misplace it if he did. He's unpredictable and follows his own rules. As it happens, he sends Mitty a roll of film with instructions indicating the last negative on the roll is his preferred photo for the final cover of Life. 

The problem is, Mitty can't find it. It wasn't enclosed in the packet containing the rest of the negatives. Nearly at wit's end, he notices a photograph of O'Connell and imagines him beckoning for him to follow. Without warning, Mitty dashes out the building and boards a plane for Greenland, O'Connell's last known location. No baggage except a briefcase, no clothes except for what he's wearing on his back. 

Unable to hook up in Greenland, he follows O'Connell to Iceland, and on to ungoverned Afghanistan in the high Himalayas, where he stumbles upon him, photographing the elusive snow leopard. O'Connell explains the negative was in a wallet he sent Mitty as a gift. Ironically, the negative was in Mitty's possession all the time, but he was so focused on where it ought to be he couldn't consider where it might be.

O'Connell thought he was being "playful," assuming his partner would get the joke. Mitty saw it differently. Sixteen years and millions of negatives made him good at his job but lousy at spontaneity. In the course of things, he'd forgotten how to play. He's not alone; a lot of us are like that. The pressures of life and work build until we take everything so seriously. We turn to alcohol or drugs to unwind, but they don't help, not really. They disinhibit, that's all. Play is something more basic, more in touch with what makes life worth living.

Observing O'Connell refuse to take a shot of a snow leopard because the moment itself is too precious, Mitty realizes some things are too special to be captured. They can only be experienced. Moments later, playing soccer with a group of young Sherpas, he learns that play and transcendence are linked, and both can find expression in the work we do. Mitty knew all about work. What he needed to learn was how to play once again.

On returning to New York, Mitty confronts the arrogant narcissist in a way that, unlike his earlier fantasies, doesn't involve physical violence. Having rediscovered himself in O'Connell's company, he is able to speak as a mature man with a secure and certain center, to a spoiled and self-centered child. No longer fearful and timid, being with the archetypal "wild man" has changed him. He commands respect and his words carry weight. 

Does Mitty ever get the girl? You have to see the film to find out. Sorry, I'm only willing to leak so much. Besides, you do want to see why that bloody negative was so important, right? Most of all, The Secret Life of Walter Mitty is worth seeing for a contemporary glimpse at the ultimately spiritual journey to earn and achieve maturity, to become confident, to feel truly capable as a human being. It's a study in contrasts, too, between Mitty, who is willing to undertake the journey, and an arrogant narcissist who for all his posturing, has not and probably never will. 

(Creative Commons image by Sheng Wang via Flickr)

Lawn Mower Face

Ten day's stubble, that's what women want to see on a guy's face, according to a recent study. Full beards mean good daddy material; heavy stubble makes us look like men. Personally, I wonder whether the female study participants (males in the study responded similarly) really want to snuggle up with Mr. Scratchy or they simply like "the look." 

Marketing likes it, that's for sure. Check out the male models in the latest L.L. Bean or Land's End catalog; almost every one has several days accumulation of 5:00 shadow. True, they're also young (20s, early 30s) and muscular, with finely chiseled facial features, characteristics no doubt chosen because of their presumed appeal to women. I'd like to know where all the mature male models have gone. You suppose, after a certain age, we don't have to try to look manly, we just do?

If maturity is a sign of masculinity, it's a darned good thing because whenever I've enjoyed more than a day of unshaven bliss, forget about women gazing at me with undisguised "I want to have your children" yearning on their faces. They only glance long enough to make a cross with both index fingers and point it in my direction. Makes me wonder if I've been watching too much True Blood (HBO) lately. Anyway, Daniel Craig's 007 looked pretty scuzzy in Skyfall (2013) after a few weeks hiding out in paradise. Even M noticed. So, what gives?

Maybe it's a shift in women's ideas about masculinity. Instead of a sensitive soul who wears his feelings on his sleeve, they want someone who appears and probably acts, a little tougher. Not in the sense he's inconsiderate or abusive -- qualities more accurately reflective of narcissism than genuine masculinity -- rather he has a kind of durability that says he can take life on the chin.

The authors of the study seem to think women consider a shaven face as too youthful, while a full beard makes men seem older, hence better candidates for parenting. Stubble characterizes the guy in the middle, situated on the cusp of masculinity. He has enough testosterone to develop a beard but not so much that he might be considered overly aggressive. "On the cusp," however, usually means "at the point of beginning." From that perspective, a man on the cusp of masculinity is still a boy, something worth remembering when you go out on a date. Appearances can be deceiving.

I have a sneaking suspicion character or manliness are more accurate terms for the qualities that came to mind when the participants viewed stubbly male faces. With a nod of the head to evolutionary psychology, I don't think women are so shallow as to be mainly interested in how closely we approximate our prehistoric ancestors. The problem is, unlike the onset of facial hair, character and manliness don't accompany puberty. They have to be earned and the proof a man possesses them is demonstrated by the way he treats others and the standards he maintains for himself, implying an investment in time and experience. We may be born male but we have to grow into manhood. Facial stubble may signal "sexy" but if Lawn Mower Face is all a fellow's got, he doesn't have nearly enough.  


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(Creative Commons image by Twaize via Flickr)

The Psychology of Tailgating: Part Two

 
Some time back I wrote a post about tailgating that included the lyrics to a song I'd written while still in Colorado. It came about one afternoon while trying to deal humorously with a BMW whose driver apparently decided my late father's beautiful '88 Cadillac was so fascinating he had to get as close as he could. My car was naturally flattered, but at 65 miles an hour, the attention wasn't exactly welcome.

Later on, I wondered about him, what motivated his behavior, was he thinking at all or was his mind far away on a beach? Why are some drivers unwilling to keep a reasonable distance? If they want to go faster, why not take the option to pass, especially if the dashed white line clearly says, "Go for it"? I think the same questions may be on the minds of those who've graciously read the first post and I'd like to offer a follow-up that errs less on the side of levity.

There are a lot of factors involved, I'm sure. A driver's attention is drawn away by a cell call as their foot depresses the accelerator proportionate to the intensity of the conversation. This is why you don't want to talk to your ex while the car is moving; tempers flare. Some drivers have psychiatric disorders that make it difficult to manage emotions, particularly under stress and driving can be stressful. Anyone who's ever been late for work knows there are times it's just hard to keep your emotions in check. Before you know it, you've forgotten other people have concerns besides yours and you're doing to them what you hate to have done to you. We're all human, every one of us.

But there's another issue I've observed, or think I've observed, since it reflects an attitude or personality trait and therefore can only be inferred. Some drivers behave as though their vehicle is a symbol of superiority and owning the road is their right and privilege. The presence of another car ahead of them sets off an intriguing cognitive process. If the car appears of comparable value to theirs, they are less likely to tailgate. Instead, they'll keep a respectful distance before accelerating around it. They'll glance at the other driver for recognition, nod and drive on. Strangers and clearly social equals passing like ships in the night. A car of lesser value or vintage, however, represents an imposition their self-importance won't tolerate. 

Now, why is that? Well, the presence of a lesser vehicle in front of them can be understood as triggering feelings related to shame. Not in the way we normally think of it, i.e. being embarrassed or ashamed because of something we've said or done. This is shame in the sense of feeling "less than," of being inferior. This experience may seem minor to you and me, but it's anything but minor to those who've oriented their entire lives around the idea they're deserving of preferential treatment. If you've been whispering to yourself the word, "narcissism," by the way, you get an A+.

Obviously, I don't think everyone who tailgates is narcissistic, but the behavior of some drivers leads me to think it's not uncommon. Consider how narcissistic individuals tend to be exquisitely sensitive to anything suggesting they aren't naturally superior to everyone else. We imagine them possessing the biggest house, newest car, and the most attractive of spouses. The reality is more diverse, though narcissism, generally, is characterized by almost a passion for control and a strong sense of entitlement. To the narcissist, our car constitutes a threat to their self-esteem; it's taking up space that rightly belongs to them. Finally racing past is their way of reminding us of the fact.

It takes very little to set off narcissistic rage, sometimes almost nothing at all. The thing to remember is, on the road or in daily life, it really is all about them, in the sense you aren't to blame for their misbehavior. You aren't inferior and they aren't superior. Accelerating dangerously or giving them the middle finger salute, only puts you at risk because your emotions have taken over your better judgment. They probably wouldn't get the point anyway. As easy as it is to become angry, it's far healthier to switch lanes or pull off the road briefly -- literally and metaphorically -- when it's safe to do so. No one's narcissism is worth an accident, or worse, becoming a statistic.   

(Creative Commons image by Eleventh Earl of Mar via Flickr)

The Sighing Thing

"Oh, God!" he sighed, heavily. So heavily I thought he and the ancient, paint-stained,  ladder back chair he was sitting in were going to sink through the scraped and scratched wooden plank floor to the soil beneath. I waited for the thunk! -- it never came. His eyes were closed, but he wasn't sleeping. Nor was he being profane.  

"It's all right, Beggar, he's just praying," my grandmother said, overhearing him. I wondered if she knew how many times I'd heard him before. So many I'd lost count.

I looked at her and smothered a smile. Did she really believe that or was she trying to preserve my youthful innocence, the very thing my grandfather -- her husband -- had done his best to turn into good judgment, something he considered eminently more practical.  

He did the "sighing thing," as I came to think of it, mostly while sitting in the shade near our bunkhouse door. It wasn't really a bunkhouse, but we called it that, just the same. It was a detached single car garage that had never housed a car, at least in my memory. My father converted it into a saddle shop at one point and I've written about cutting firewood for his stove. Summers, it was the bunkhouse where my grandfather stayed. Those months, I've realized since, were a journey in character development.

"If you absolutely have to point a gun at someone to protect yourself or your family," he said once, "it's too late for threats. Indecision at a time like that can be deadly." He spoke from experience. Another summer night, years before, he stared down a neighbor who had the nasty habit of occasionally firing his gun in the general direction of my grandfather. "The man's crazy," he said, refusing to get dragged into something he knew he'd have to finish, "and besides, he can't shoot worth a damn." Only this particular evening, it was different. The man had shot at my father who was about my age and I was thirteen. 

Why not call the police or sheriff, I imagine you're thinking. That would have been the thing to do, if they'd had a phone. Forty miles into barely civilized northwestern Colorado, the ranch was a two or three hour drive by Model A Ford from the nearest town. There were no phones, nor were there corner stores or gas stations. I'm not even sure there was electricity. It wasn't that you took the law into your own hands, there just wasn't anyone else who could take it into theirs.   

So, father and son rode out to address the situation. Watching the scene unfold, my father was fearful, certain he was going to witness my grandfather meet out justice just as his father had fifty years earlier. In my imagination, reliving those long seconds, I see my grandfather with a look in his eye that left no doubt, as his hand strayed to the pistol at his side, that he fully intended to use it. The neighbor must have seen that look, too, because he backed down and that was the end of it.

Grandchildren are a second chance for parents to get it right. Those summers, I was my grandfather's trusty teen sidekick, Cowboy Toby to his Roy Rogers (photo). I listened, learned, and hopefully digested far more than I actually remember. I've never forgotten the "sighing thing," though, nor the day I finally asked him what it meant.

I'd really been hoping he'd tell me himself when he was good and ready. That's how things usually went between us, though I never knew from day to day where his mind would lead. But it was nearing the end of summer and he'd said nothing, so I screwed up the courage one day and asked what was he thinking about when he sighed so deeply. He was surprised I'd noticed. How could I not? 

"You live as long as I have, Beggar, you're going to make a few mistakes. Don't be afraid, everybody makes a few and so will you. Some, maybe most, don't matter, least not as much as we give them credit for. People who know you, forgive like you forgive them. Some mistakes do matter -- maybe more than they should, but that doesn't change the fact. Problem is, you either don't realize it or you're too stubborn to admit it, until it's too late. I think about those."

"So you don't make the same ones again, right?" 

"No, because I made them the first time." 

I was too young to understand regret. Sorry, wish I hadn't said or done this or that, oh yes -- plenty. Regret was something else, something -- I don't know -- bigger, something I hadn't lived long enough to become acquainted with. Something that only comes about with experience, with trying to do what you think is right even though you don't and can't know everything but you have to try anyway because it's all you can do and it's really all anyone can do. Don't worry, we all make mistakes, so will you. It's okay. My grandfather said so.

Happy Thanksgiving.


(Creative Commons image by vintagecobweb,com via Flickr)

Letting the Chips Fall

I was getting some work done on my car and enjoying a visit with the mechanic when it happened, but I'll get to that in a minute. I like talking to mechanics and it's unusual for them to allow customers in the auto bays -- liability, you know. But this fellow's doubled as his waiting room, which, by the way, says a lot about the size of his operation. Anyway, since one of the two chairs was occupied by a morbidly obese collection of tools, greasy parts, and half-empty cans of WD-40, I sat down in the other.

I'd actually brought a book along to keep myself from distracting him with questions, but he wanted to talk and so talk we did, mostly about this and that. In which of the neighboring towns did I live, had I been there long enough to know his sister, when is the next snow coming. The kinds of things that make up life outside medical school and are common to small-town Maine. Probably small-town anywhere, for that matter.

Then he asked what I did for a living. If not the first question men ask one another, this is certainly the second or third. Men talk about work, what we do, how long we've done it, have we done it all our lives and where. It's how we size each other up, determine if we're responsible, reliable, if we can be taken seriously. I thought he handled my answer, that I was a medical student, rather well. It only took him about ten seconds to recover from the initial shock -- he did, however, turn around sharply and look at me like I'd just offered him a thousand dollars for a job he'd bill at ten -- before composing himself to ask what I'd done before. A guy my age must have done one or two somethings, maybe a few more, before sticking his neck out.

"I was a psychotherapist," I said in the most benign tone I could conjure. He picked up the theme like it was a favorite wrench he kept near at hand and related tales of family members who'd engaged the county mental health service, saying how he'd love to "get outta this garage" and do something with his life, while there was still time. Before standing on an uninsulated concrete floor in the dead of winter crippled him like it did his father. He reminded me of the bartender in Billy Joel's Piano Man.

He walked away from the window he was repairing in my passenger side door, shattered late one night by small-time crooks too stupid to realize a 2001 Honda was too old to have a navigation system they could pry free and fence for drug money. If they'd taken time to look in the window before throwing a brick through it, they'd have known. He stepped through the maze of tires and boxes, found a radio sitting on an oil drum, and switched from classic to alternative rock to country, listened a moment or two, and returned to my window. Watching him, I ducked my head and smiled; it was the same thing I would have done.

"Have you always been a therapist?"

Here it comes, I thought. No, I said, I'd also been a minister since about 19 aught 3, or so it seemed on weekends when I came home from rotations, dog tired, with two days to catch up on a week's sleep deprivation. Trying to salvage the situation, I added, but medicine had always been simmering on the back burner and just before my dad died, I finally gave myself permission to move it to the front. Too late, his demeanor had shifted as subtly as the tectonic plates and as noticeably as the Richter Scale identifying a tremor. Some things never change.

Up til then, we'd been two relatively ordinary guys talking about life and limb; a stranger would have sworn we'd known each other for years rather than 30 minutes. All that vanished so quickly it felt like it had never been there in the first place. I was a minister now and he was on his best behavior.

I didn't say it then, but I really haven't spent my adulthood with my head buried in the sand, fearful seeing the world as it was would sully my spiritual sensibilities. If I ever had them, and I feel sure I must have, they've been knocked down, brick and stone, by my own fallibility. A religion that's only good for Sunday morning rarely has much value the rest of the week. Some clerics like the interpersonal distance a collar or title provides; I like risking honesty. I like people who are sufficiently real to swear and not give a damn whether I notice.

In any case, I wasn't eager to put on my minister's hat quite yet and my friend couldn't see me wearing anything else. It's going to take some time. I'll go back to get my snow treads installed, and we'll talk again. Maybe eventually we can find a middle ground, one where he's him, I'm me, and we let the chips fall where they may.


(Creative Commons Sharealike image via Wikipedia)

Missing Megan Fox

I really like Megan Fox, but not necessarily for the reasons you might think, me being a guy and all. Sure, she's drop-dead gorgeous -- I'd have to be blind as a bat not to have noticed and trust me, I've noticed. But what I like about her so much is her role in the first two Transformer films. No, I'm not talking about the cutoff jean shorts she wears in both, though I noticed them as well. I mean her character.

Megan (if she's reading this, I hope she doesn't mind the familiarity) plays Mikaela Banes, a pretty young woman with a past. Her father has a prison record for grand theft auto and she, a juvenile record for having been his presumed accomplice. She has another liability, however, and that's her beauty and sex appeal. Like far too many women, she has a history of being regarded as a trophy.

In the first film, her boyfriend is a muscular, good-looking, football player who treats her like a possession once too often. She knows there's something wrong with the guys she's chosen to date, she doesn't like the pattern, and she has sufficient inner strength to do something about it. As she's walking home, along comes the film's hero, Sam Witwicky. Sam is everything the other guys could never be: overtly insecure, honest, and down deep, utterly courageous.

In the first installment of the trilogy, Mikaela is not only a match for Sam, in some ways she is even more heroic. For instance, when they're attacked by a mini-decepticon, she grabs a power saw and goes to work, rescuing him. During the final battle against Megatron, she is determined to save Bumble Bee by hooking him up to a tow truck and then drives it backwards down a wreckage-strewn street while he shoots at the bad guys. I love that scene.

In Revenge of the Fallen, her character is a little more traditional and her biggest challenge seems to involve convincing Sam to tell her that he loves her. Sam, how crazy do you have to be to have someone like her around and dither about saying, "I love you?" Get a clue, buddy. Anyway, that bothered me, the fact that she wasn't permitted to be the totally gutsy chick she was in Transformers. Her character wasn't just beautiful, she was admirable.

Now we come to Dark of the Moon and there's no Megan Fox. Instead, we've got a blond babe whom Sam has decided is the love of his life. She flirts with other guys and then minimizes her behavior, she's essentially focused on the accumulation of expensive toys, and perhaps, worst of all, she has absolutely no idea what makes Sam tick. You tell me what's wrong with this picture.

If we wanted to get psychological, we'd have to ask why Sam hooked up with her in the first place. According to the story line, he and Mikaela had a fight, broke up, and rather than do what any man with a lick of sense would do, i.e. turn himself inside out to get Mikaela back, he lets her go. Sam clearly has far too much pride for his own good. It's what kept him from declaring his feelings in Revenge of the Fallen and it comes back to haunt him in Dark of the Moon. We could be Freudian and say the new girl is more like his mother, but we really don't have enough character development to go that route. We do know, however, that Mikaela and his mother are two very different kinds of women and that could explain a lot.

For whatever reasons the producers decided Megan's character wasn't meant to be a part of the last film, I miss her. I liked Mikaela's resourcefulness and willingness to take a risk. Her response to Sam's question, "Fifty years from now, when you're looking back on your life, don't you want to be able to say you had the guts to get into that car?" is one with which I, as an older medical student, can well identify. I also liked the fact that she wasn't squeaky clean. She had a past she was ashamed of but she refused to let that prevent her from something better. Her wounds made her human and more interesting. Best of all, I think, she didn't allow herself to be paralyzed by fear. She could be counted on in the clinches and was capable enough to be a participant in the action rather than a hand-wringing damsel-in-distress. Definitely the right kind of gal and why I'm missing Megan Fox.


(Image of Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen via RottenTomatoes.com)

An Ordinary Guy

Well, spring certainly came late to the farm this year. The past few weeks have been chilly, wet, and dreary -- more reminiscent, I imagine, of the northeastern coast of Wales, whence my ancestors came, than coastal Maine. The upside of all this has been my yard no longer looks like August in Colorado, brown and bone dry. The downside is, mowing the grass yesterday was more like harvesting the autumn hay crop.

I'm not complaining, though, nor am I disgruntled because spring decided to take the slow train from wherever. I've wrestled enough with my own "tardiness demons" to be empathetic when the clock runs behind for someone else. Rather than giving spring a good spanking for dragging its heels, I'm welcoming it with open arms. The Prodigal Son has come home at last.

Besides the rain, this means there was a blanket of fog draped over the hayfield when I crawled out of bed this morning, awakened rudely by the sound of water, a steady stream tinkling from my puppy's bladder onto the towels in his crate. Oops. That's what towels are for, right? And it was only his first night and I'd probably pee, too, if it was me, or have to or want to. Something I think he'd like to do again, as a matter of fact, so pardon us while we step away from the computer for a minute and go outside.

False alarm -- he's gone back to sleep, a momentary reprieve. Crate training is a grand experiment. I tried it with my big dog and he did well with house-breaking. Since the little guy has been in a shelter, I thought a crate would make him feel more at home and give him a place all his own. Thus far, it seems to be working; he's slept through most of this post. I can only hope readers don't take the hint and follow his example.

Getting back to spring and grass-growing, it's possible you're wondering why I waited so long to begin mowing, aside from the fact that it's rained almost daily. Well, there was my rotation for one thing. Twelve hours a day at the hospital doesn't leave much time for yard work and that includes repairing the flat tire on my lawn tractor. When I finally had a day free, I discovered it was virtually impossible, with the tools I had, to get the rim off the tractor.

I was, as my late father would say, stuck. I couldn't drive the tractor to the garage because it had a flat and couldn't trailer it because I don't have a trailer. So, I did what any self-respecting future physician should do, namely, phone a colleague and ask for assistance. And that's what I did. I rang up my mechanic, a down-to-earth, easy-going type who is fond of referring to himself as the Car Doc, at least when he's repairing my car, and asked if he'd make a house call. I figured it had to come with the territory.

Now here's what I love about rural Mainers. Not only did the "doctor" take me seriously, though he's probably never had a case quite like this, he actually sent help. A friend of his came over and together we manhandled the tire and rim free. He followed up by insisting on taking it for repair and refused to take a dime in payment. I've never met the man before but he treated me like his next door neighbor.

Driving home -- turns out, the tire was fine, by the way, just a little low in oxygen saturation -- I reflected on what had happened. I've got a graduate degree, nearly two more, and the fellow I'd just met graduated, maybe, from high school. Yet, the measure of his kindness exceeded that which I've experienced from persons who are far more socially adept as well as academically accomplished. He was simply an ordinary guy who enjoyed doing something good for someone else and today was my day to be that person. If spring hadn't been late, if my tractor tire hadn't gone flat, if I hadn't been working so much, think what I would have missed.


(Creative Commons image via Wikipedia)

Omega Thinking Revisited

A little over a year ago, I wrote a post entitled, Omega Thinking, describing my journey to medical school and the changes that have taken place in my life along the way. Since then, I've shared this concept with a number of people, some older, some younger, and all of them have found it a meaningful explanation of experiences they've had, and I've been encouraged to believe I may be on to something.

Let me give you a brief overview to get us all on the same page. In the photo you'll notice two Greek letters, alpha on the left, and omega on the right. While nobody's life proceeds in a straight line, for the sake of simplicity, let's say the left leg of the omega represents mine as a young man. At some point, I'm guessing about age 25, I took a left turn. I didn't realize what I was doing at the time nor did I make the turn intentionally. It just happened, like a lot of things.

For the next twenty or so years, I wandered, for lack of a better term, around the loop, attending graduate school, running a business, going through life trying to figure our where I fit in, if I did at all. Exactly when I took the second left, this time onto the right leg of the omega, is also uncertain. I think it was 1998, the year my mother died, my father was diagnosed with pre-leukemia, and I began premedical studies. In depth psychology, "left" symbolizes the unconscious and I've come to interpret the first left turn as a sidestep ultimately leading to self-discovery. The second left integrated the person I had been with the one I was becoming, and perhaps, ought to have been all along. This sounds easy; in reality, it was far from, though the details will only muddy the water, so we'll leave them out at the moment.

The complicating factor in all of this is the arrangement of the legs of the omega. Notice the point at which they are nearest one another. When someone undertakes a process like the one I'm describing, once they've come full circle, they're going to be more like the person they were when they started out. Yes, they're older, and hopefully, more mature, but that doesn't change the fact that they're closer to the starting line than the end of the race. It seems to me, for reasons only the unconscious knows and each of us has to fetter out, some of us need time in the loop in order to truly run our race to the best of our ability. Or to find out which one is our race to begin with.

In either case, once a person has exited the loop, they may find themselves out of step with members of their age-group generation in terms of interests and life tasks. While you were "in the loop," those who weren't, moved on ahead, and now, in a very real sense, your generation is not the one you were born into, but one you dropped into when you stepped out of the loop. Sounds like a time warp, doesn't it? But that's how people I've talked with describe it.

It can be genuinely confusing, when you find yourself in a position like this, and for most of the past year, I've wondered if there was a corollary to Omega Thinking that might verify I was on the right track. Something more than the validation I'd received from others who liked the idea. This week, I found what I was looking for. It surfaced while chatting with someone in recovery from alcohol dependence. The nature of recovery forces a person to confront issues that have been hidden for years, blunted by their drug of choice. Doing so can be difficult, painful, and yet, have the effect of creating the feeling that one is alive for the first time. Once you dare draw the curtains wide, there's no telling what you'll see. Although our histories were different, the pattern we followed was extraordinarily similar.

Was my initial left turn a mistake? Was it like this man's first drink as a teenager that made him feel like an adult and kept him drinking for thirty years? I'm inclined to say it wasn't because of the value I've come to place on the things I've learned and the relationships I've established along the way. The unconscious leads us where we need to go, even when we think we're in charge. I certainly thought I knew what I was doing at 25. If there was a mistake involved, it stemmed from trusting an omniscience I never possessed and relying on judgment that was untested and unproven.

I'm not about to say I'm older and wiser, now. Older, yes. Wiser is still ahead, somewhere down the road, or at least I hope so. But even the "older" piece of it is relative. It helps, having a grey hair or a wrinkle here and there, when trying to convince a patient to take better care of themselves. But I'm still a student -- 25 or 50 plus, it doesn't matter -- and I must come across as one because some of my patients treat me as though I've got a lot to learn. And they're absolutely right, I do. What I've learned already, by sidestepping into the omega loop, is how to pay closer attention to what life has to teach.(Creative Commons image by Leo Reynolds via Flickr)

Talk About Being Hard-Nosed

We were chatting about various issues, don't ask don't tell, the nature of relationships, and of course, politics, and how he imagined I might feel about them.

"I kind of expected, you being a man of the cloth and all, you'd think differently," he said.

"I'm sorry, but what does being a minister have to do with it?"

"Well, you know, the Bible says certain things just aren't right and I figured you being a minister, you knew the Bible better than most, and therefore you'd be pretty hard-nosed about those things."

He'd made a reasonable assumption, I just didn't happen to share it. To explain why, I told him the following story.

Once upon a time, there was a woman who had been caught, I assume by her husband, with another man. At this particular time in history, it was common practice to drag the woman out into the street, humiliate and then stone her to death. No one asked whether she had been abused or neglected and no one offered to represent her in court. As a matter of fact, there was no court except public opinion and in that one, she was guilty as charged.

Things were looking bad for the woman when Jesus happened by. The townspeople told him what was taking place and asked his opinion. He thought about it a minute or two and said, "Anybody who's never done anything they're ashamed of can throw the first stone." One by one, the people walked away. Then he said to the woman, "Looks like nobody's left to accuse you and neither do I. From now on, though, try not to get yourself into another situation like this."

"Yeah, but I'm talking about stuff that's unnatural," he said, "men and men, women and women. You got to be either for or against that."

"I don't have to be one way or the other on anything," I said, "because the One I work for wasn't. He dispensed with passing judgment except on those who thought they had a right to judge others. That didn't sit well with him. If he was here right now, you know what I think he'd tell us? Stop worrying about what other people do, whether it's right or wrong, natural or unnatural, and start being compassionate because some day you may need it as much as anyone else. And if you don't show it, you have no right to expect it."

Talk about being hard-nosed.


(Creative Commons image entitled "Hard-nosed" by Peter Giger via Flickr)

Pink Hats 22: A Different Drummer

After-hours coffee and Danish from the Nook and Cranny had the earmarks of becoming a ritual between friends. Despite his pediatrics rotation having been complete around mid-September, Chuck continued drop by Bob's office throughout the first of his two required six-week internal medicine rotations and now an elective two weeks in radiology. On the other side of four more in OB/GYN lay psychiatry, at last. What he didn't expect was the residual effect of his initial month with Bob, Jessie, and the twins on his future.

"I keep thinking about that child-adolescent fellowship and it's all your fault," he said, hanging his head and faking misery.

"I've been blamed for a lot of things," Bob replied, ruefully, "including a baby when I was seventeen that I had absolutely nothing to do with -- and couldn't have even if I'd wanted to because I was on a Scouting trip during conception -- but this is a new one. Tell me."

They were sitting in Bob's office with their feet propped up on opposite sides of a massive roll top desk he'd inherited ten years ago from his pediatrics instructor who, at 80, decided it was a good time to retire and sail around the world. He made it, by the way, and now, he and his wife were trekking in Nepal, in celebration of his 90th birthday.

"Well, I thought I had everything planned out. Adult psychiatry was my bailiwick. Sure, I loved kids, just like you, but I enjoyed psychotherapy so much it was hard to see myself in another role. Then you came along -- and Jessie -- and the twins -- and the next thing you know, I couldn't get enough of pediatrics. Especially the kids with ADHD and parents who're going nuts trying to cope, the occasional bipolar disorder we've seen, and the substance-abusing teens. And frankly, I miss them. I feel like saying, along with the prophet Isaiah, 'Woe is me, for I am undone.'"

Bob pursed his lips and nodded, as though he had anticipated the news. "I had a feeling we were going to be a bad influence. It's even worse when the kids like you, and clearly, they do -- that's a trap waiting to be set. Top it off, when you can get teenagers talking -- well, all I can say is, you are in way wicked trouble, my friend." He broke into an appreciative smile.

"Looks like it. I don't know all the details yet, but I've got plenty of time -- see? You can't get rid of me, can you? Now, about the dream you mentioned a couple of days ago in passing, the one you had on the way home from Concord --"

"-- yeah, what did you think of that?" Bob asked, interrupting.

"It was a good one, especially coming on the heals of meeting Jessie's father."

"You're saying a dream's timing is as important as its content?"

"From the perspective of interpretation, yes. Dreams are one thing, the way we view them afterward, is another. My impression is, this one is suggesting you have your own rhythm. Kind of like Thoreau's comment, 'If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it's because he hears a different drummer.' In your dream, the bass drum was a stethoscope -- you're maintaining the 'beat' of the music all right, but in your way. Timing enters the picture because, from what you've told me about Jessie's dad, it sounds like he's inclined to do similarly. It's probably another one of the benefits of you being older, allowing the two of you to establish a more mature connection."

"I agree, but that didn't make it any easier. Sure, we were more likely to develop a peer-type relationship than would have been possible if I was nearer Jessie's age, but he's still her father and truthfully? I felt like I was 22 once again, sweaty palms included. I guess none of us are as 'together' as we'd like to believe."

"That holds true for me, I'll tell you. One thing you can definitely count on is your relationship with her father making life a great deal easier for Jessie."

Bob was in mid-bite on his Danish. He stopped, put it down, and said, "I would assume that's a 'given.'"

"It is, but there's more. It tells her she doesn't have to love one of you at the expense of the other. It gives her a deep, abiding sense of security about two of the most important relationships a woman can have with men. And a woman like Jessie, who clearly wants someone with more maturity than a guy closer to her own age might possess, has the unspoken expectation that whoever she brings home, should be someone her father can respect as well as one who respects him. You already know this, but she's really an extraordinary woman -- I hope I get half as lucky." With a gleam in his eye he added, "Wait a minute. Didn't you tell me she has a sister? Anyhow, looks to me like you hit this one out of the ballpark. When are you going to pop the question?"

Bob laughed, "One at a time. First, yes I did and she's available, but I think it would look better if Jessie played matchmaker. A professor setting up a date might appear as unfair advantage. As to the second, I haven't quite decided, but I'm thinking around Christmas. It's our favorite time of year and even a romantic moron like me can pick the right place. I need to find a ring and I haven't figured out how to get her size without coming out and asking. I could do that, I suppose, but then the cat would be out of the bag and I'd like this to be a surprise. Not that we haven't talked or at least alluded to it. I just want very badly for her to have the 'fairy tale,' you know?"

"Yes, I do, and she'll love you for it."


(Creative Commons image by Allie's Dad via Flickr)

A Spy for an Evening

Last night I felt a little like Arnold Schwarzenegger. Not in the sense that I've been approached about running for governor of California or suddenly developed a Mr. Universe physique. Being a medical student has headaches enough -- I think I'll pass on politics -- and believe me, I'm light years from looking like Adonis. No, it was Schwarzenegger as Harry Tasker in the film, True Lies, a mild-mannered computer salesman to his wife and daughter, and a spy to the rest of the world. It's the film in which Jamie Lee Curtis utters the line probably every man wishes his wife would at some point in their marriage, i.e. "I married Rambo."

Now, the similarity I felt didn't result from a backstreet run-in with terrorists or a secretive midnight flight to Geneva. It was more mundane than that; it came about when my dance instructor announced we'd be learning the Tango. If you've seen True Lies, you probably have a mental image of Schwarzenegger casually taking the time to dance a Tango with the gorgeous Tia Carrere while his buddies, monitoring his activity by radio, are going nuts because any second he could be discovered by the bad guys.

It made the evening fun, anyway, imaging myself learning skills that might come in handy if I'm ever called upon to serve my country under cover. I know, fat chance -- both of serving under cover and having Tia Carrere as a partner. But the Tango is very romantic and even going through the motions of learning it creates an air of sophistication that made me feel as though I should have been dressed in a tuxedo instead of jeans and sport shirt.

We only practiced the essential steps last night, which means we left out the part where the man appears to drag his partner across the floor. We did, however, include a sensuous move allowing the woman to lean tantalizingly close and then back away, but only so far as your arms will allow. You don't have to be Schwarzenegger, nor does your partner have to be a luscious female secret agent, to appreciate that. I suppose it helps, but there's always fantasy and on the dance floor, imagination can be as good as the real thing.

Even if it only turns you into a spy for an evening.

(Creative Commons image of the Tango by formfactor via Flickr)

If Bono Can Do It...

"I don't think there's a qualifier, but if there were, it would say that the attributes of 'young' and 'good-looking' are strictly optional. Any man who cares about his wife/girlfriend/s.o. and shows it in concrete ways, is a 'pearl of great price,' and will find that taking out the trash can drive her into a romantic frenzy." ~ EHC

One of the "rules of engagement" frequently overlooked by men in the attempt to relate to the opposite sex is the rule of consideration. There was a time, not too long ago, when men were a little uncertain in this regard, not wishing to diminish a woman's own power by doing for her what she could do for herself. Good intentions notwithstanding, I've rarely known a woman who was not appreciative of a man being genuinely and honestly considerate.

I realize this sounds old fashioned and it probably is, but that doesn't render it a fossilized entry in our behavioral vocabulary. I've witnessed numerous occasions where Mr. Got-It-Made-in-the-Shade has ended up looking like a fool in comparison to an ordinary guy who knew how to treat a woman like she was special. Being a gentleman sets you apart and it does so in a good way. Even if men don't happen to notice, women do.

So, how do you proceed? To begin with, when taking a woman out, open her door, both when she's entering and exiting the car. If Bono can do it (photo), well, you get the message. A woman might act a little confused or self-conscious at first, but don't worry, she's probably not be used to having someone do this for her. Most guys don't, especially after they've dated a while or they've moved in together and he's starting to act like he's dad and she's mom without even realizing it.

Hold the door for her anytime you're entering a room or building. Help her on and off with her coat before dealing with yours. Pull out her chair when dining out -- or even at the home of friends, for that matter. Walk on the street-side when strolling down the sidewalk together; it's a sign of respect. Resist the temptation to think you're ever passed the point where you need to be polite, because once you do, you're flirting with taking your partner for granted. If there's any no-no you want to avoid like the plague, this one's it.

Sure, there may come a time when she'll open her own car door out of convenience, in haste, or because she doesn't want you to feel like you always have to do it for her, but surprise her occasionally. Furthermore, being a gentleman ought not be limited to those times when a man is courting. He will go a long way toward creating positive regard for himself if he's polite with coworkers and women in general.

Now, the key thing to remember is, consideration has to be genuine. It should be the natural expression of who you are as a person. It's not something you do because you have to or to get something in return. I mean, yes, I think it's safe to say a guy's going to come a lot closer to a kiss on the first date if he's considerate, but we're talking about being a gentleman and gentlemen aren't polite for the sake of what they can obtain. Consideration is its own reward.

Finally, being a gentleman among women and men doesn't make one a stereotypically "nice guy." Niceness is fine but gentlemanliness flows from an inner strength. It reveals a quiet, confident self-possession and self-awareness that not only women, but also other men, find compelling. It shows up when you least expect it, like for example, when you take out the trash -- without being asked.

(Creative Commons image by dpnash via Flickr -- a word of thanks in acknowledgment to EHC, a loyal reader who offered the quote beginning this essay.)

What Women Have Taught Me (about Women)

Reading advice to men from women has always been a favorite with me. A guy can learn a lot from the opposite sex and mostly, all he has to do is ask. Be sincere, genuine, admit he hasn't got a clue, and doors open. If only getting a date were so simple.

Naturally, it's important to ask the right women and for me, that's usually meant those who seem like they're in the know. The truth is, experience counts and who better to offer advice based on it than those who've accumulated some in the first place?

It's also important how you ask because women can't be expected to be disloyal to their gender nor do they want to give away the family jewels. What I mean is, there are some things they're simply not going to tell you, no matter how nicely you broach the subject, so don't expect the equivalent of who really shot JFK. That said, there are others they'd love to coach you about, such as how to tell if a woman finds you attractive.

I know this to be a fact because I asked once -- how could I know, that is, not whether any did or not. I'm only willing to risk so much self-esteem. What I learned may surprise you. Sure, there was the old, do her pupils dilate when she looks at you, but the problem with this is, the light might be bad and they'd be dilated anyway. Besides, it's more subtle than that.

For instance, when talking with two men, which one is a woman's body facing or at least angled towards? Whose posture is she mirroring? Looking closer, at which of the two do her eyes light up? These are unconscious cues that can speak volumes, especially if the other guy's one of the Backstreet Boys and you think you haven't got a chance.

On a more obvious note, does a woman go out of her way to speak to you? Is she easily drawn into conversation with lots of eye contact? This is no time to develop fumble fingers -- hang onto the ball for dear life and make up something to talk about if you have to. When you're wearing a jacket, does she pick lint from your shoulder or lapel and then smooth the fabric? See guys? Haven't I been telling you to wear sport coats?

The point is, become a student of women. Speak less and observe more. Learn the nuances of body language and conversational style, pay attention to detail. Don't be afraid to approach a mentoring type (moms don't count) and ask a few honest questions. Oh, and uh, one more thing: buy a decent sport jacket and whatever you do, don't leave it hanging in the closet.


(Creative commons image entitled "Hands" by michael.newman via Flickr)

Proving a Point

Before settling down to write this morning, my cat and I were watching the qualifying runs for the European Grand Prix in Valencia, Spain, over coffee. Well, let's put it this way, I was watching and he was getting his morning dose of lap time (no pun intended). One of the great things about this season's racing has been the return of seven-time world champion Michael Schumacher to the scene after a three-year "retirement."

You'd think someone with his experience would have a fairly easy time taking the lead in the championship standings, but that hasn't been the case. For one thing, he's driving for a new team, Mercedes-McLaren rather than Ferrari, and this weekend, he's racing on a course he's never driven before. Tire and auto technology have advanced since he retired, and now he's facing a learning curve similar to the one confronting younger, as well as newer, drivers.

During his final lap in the qualifying heats, he was informed by his mechanics team (two-way radios are standard in Formula One) that there was a problem with his power steering and he was asked if could he finish. Silence from Michael as he pushed his car faster and ended up in the top grid. Said one commentator with a chuckle, "I guess that's his answer."

I love seeing a veteran doing what s/he loves and making a comeback. And particularly so when his position in the standings doesn't place him anywhere near the lead. I'm guessing he got plenty of advice, before deciding to return to racing, that suggested this was a risky venture. To begin with, he's older, he's out of practice, and he has his reputation to think about. Did he really want to appear like a former champion who didn't know when to quit?

Apparently, he's got sufficient ego strength and self-awareness to take that risk for the sake of living the life he values the most. He may be like Lance Armstrong, who has begun racing again simply because he loves it. Winning is fine, but he's riding for deeper reasons, to achieve fulfillment, to be his very best self.

Formula One is an expensive enterprise and while having Michael on the team is good PR, sooner or later he's got to pay the rent. I feel certain he knows this and fully intends to do so, leaving those who said he should be cautious to think again.

Sometimes you just have to prove a point.


(GNU Free Documentation Image via Wikipedia)

Lessons from the Dance Floor

"How do you let the woman know where you want her to go?" I asked. In any other context, it would have sounded chauvinistic, at best a little cocky. On the dance floor, however, it's critical if you're going to lead, and by cultural convention since I was the man, I was also the leader, and I needed a hint. The steps I could do, but how to communicate my intention to my partner?

"Ah! Good question! Watch me," said my instructor, as he simultaneously lifted his left hand and gently nudged his partner into a spin with his right. We were practicing making the waltz more interesting and as I imitated his movements, the lights began to come on. It's not a matter of whispering, "Okay, now we're going to turn," but rather of placing my hands in a position that draws my partner out of her usual pattern and into a new one.

I can't get over the subtly of what I'm learning from week to week. I still feel like a clod sometimes, an overgrown country boy clad in a too-large-for-his-feet pair of his father's boots, stomping around the dance floor. I feel sorry for my partners and apologize for misplaced steps that leave them wondering if they're dancing with the poster child for ataxia (staggering, stumbling gait). I watch my instructor -- he makes it look effortless -- and wonder if I'll ever come close.

It's so hard not to approach dancing like a medical student, analyzing everything and evaluating my performance as if a life hangs in the balance. "Close your eyes," my instructor admonishes, telling me, in effect, I'm over-thinking. I do, the step falls into place, and once again I apologize to my partner, this time for not looking into her eyes.

In the midst of it all, I get a glimpse of what's happening to me. I'm learning to lead, adjusting the power in my arms to match my partner's, too much for one and too little for another. Women are miracle and mystery embodied; the tension transmitted by the way they carry themselves speaks volumes and most men are too busy to listen. I'm learning to be a man with women in a way that's new, that doesn't care how many languages I read or how well I converse. I'm not sure I can describe it, but I like the way it feels. Sigh, lessons from the dance floor...I mean, who knew?

Dispositional Authenticity: True to One's Self

To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not be false to any man. ~ Polonius, Hamlet, Act I, Scene III

I got hooked on Hamlet as a teenager, drawn in by the idea of a young man conspiring with the ghost of his father to expose the truth of his murder. As a son whose father has died, I can relate to Hamlet far more now than ever before, but that's a subject for another post.

This morning I'm thinking about the advice given by Polonius to his son, Laertes, who is about to depart for France. On the face of it, Polonius sounds like a father preparing his son to relate to the world as an adult, and concludes his speech with the famous quote above. In point of fact, he reveals that throughout life, he has been true only to himself, and as a result, being false to any and everyone, when the occasion required it, has been easy. You might say he has been authentically inauthentic and he doesn't even know it.

I'm mentioning this because researchers at Ohio State University have been conducting a study among heterosexual couples examining the role of dispositional authenticity -- the proclivity for being true to one's sense of self -- in romantic relationships. It appears that individuals who are self-aware, and who live up to what they know of themselves, behave in ways that are more intimate and less destructive with respect to their partners.

My father would not have been surprised. He used to say waiting until you're involved with someone to begin the process of self-discovery is like repairing the fence after the cattle have wandered through. "You can't very well figure someone else out, if you haven't figured yourself out first." As obvious as this sounds, it's very revealing when you think about some relationships.

Being true to oneself implies the presence of a self to begin with. At the very least, this refers to a stable and enduring core enabling one to grow, contribute to the well-being of others, and cope with loss and frustration. Among individuals who employ a "false self" as compensation for insecurity, or who rely on a contrivance that has little or no basis in reality, dispositional authenticity is compromised. Like Polonius, their expression of self is situation-dependent and who they truly are, from moment to moment, is uncertain.

For partners who are accustomed to being honest with and about themselves, interacting with the dispositionally inauthentic is perplexing and sometimes, downright crazy-making. Consistency is important, especially where intimacy is concerned, and it helps immensely to be able to interact with someone who is "always home." When your partner's identity is as variable as spring weather in Maine and they are unwilling or unable to examine themselves to find out why, the whole concept of being in relationship is called into question.


(P.S. Thanks, everyone, for your patience yesterday, I appreciate it.)

The Fisher King: Finding One's Center

Holy Grail in Valencia, Spain (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

When we left him in yesterday's post, the Fisher King was doing the only thing that gave him relief from suffering -- fishing. As it turns out, he lives in the Grail Castle of Arthurian legend, wherein resides the Holy Grail. Every night, a procession takes place in the castle and the Grail, along with the lance that pierced the side of Christ, are brought forth. Anyone who is served from the Grail receives whatever s/he wishes, even if their desire has never been put into words. Anyone that is, except the king.

Unfortunately, there are some wounds that are unresponsive to simple solutions. A few weeks of cognitive-behavioral therapy might be sufficient to learn basic skills for coping with depression, but some things take time and deep cultivation to overcome. Wounds to the feeling function such as the king received as a youth are like that. Even a sip from the Cup of Christ cannot touch his pain.

Legend has it a young man will come, view the procession, and ask a question that has the power to alleviate the king's suffering and its effect on the kingdom. In other words, instead of focusing on the king's symptoms, he will direct attention to the core issue. The time for symptom management is long past; we need to find the cure.

Enter Parsifal, the innocent "fool" (see 1/24/09), who has been traveling the country, engaged in knight errantry much as the young king, years before. Seeking shelter one evening, he encounters an old man fishing in a lake who informs him there is no inn for miles. Should Parsifal wish, he may ride down the road a little further, take a left turn and cross the drawbridge, and stay the night in the castle. In order to fulfill his destiny and open the way for the king's healing, he will have to "turn left" and enter the realm of the unconscious mind (see 1/16/09).

Parsifal accepts the offer, witnesses the procession, but fails to ask the question. Why does he hold back at the critical moment? It may be because he does not know the question. He is still a youth and hasn't experienced the kinds of things that keep us awake at night, wondering what if? But there is something else, something beneath his armor, that works against him as well. Parsifal wears a garment of homespun made by his mother to protect him against the wiles of the world. Though he wishes to appear a man, the homespun signifies a desire to be nurtured and cared for by mother that is more appropriate to a younger age. He is not yet ready to ask the deepest questions of life.

Twenty years later, Parsifal once again finds himself in the woods near the Grail Castle, seeking shelter. He has spent his life rescuing maidens, slaying dragons, and living out the Knight's Tale. Now grown, he has finally put off his mother's homespun and learned to meet the world on its own terms. Once again, he is encouraged by a curious old man fishing in a lake, to ride down the road, turn left, cross the drawbridge, and spend the night in his castle. This time, however, he possesses the maturity to ask, "Whom does the Grail Serve?" At that moment, the king is healed of his wound and the kingdom is restored to vitality. Three days later, the king dies.

Boyishness is a wonderful quality and its spontaneity, exuberance, and delight in living can be vivifying in a man. But it needs to be coupled with depth and experience to be effective in dealing with such things as a wounded feeling function. Some men are never quite able to shed their homespun. There have a quality of indecision or uncertainty about them, especially in the clinches, that seems to say, "Life is too much for me." Having never let go of reliance on mother or mother figures, they are virtual boys in a man's body.

For most men, however, mid-life arrives carrying the baggage of loss -- perhaps a divorce or the death of a parent. Loss can be a gift that drags a man out of self-absorption, showing him how he may have wasted precious time, or missed important opportunities. He begins asking what has motivated him and how does he wish to spend the rest of his life. Questions like these place him in a position to ask whom the Grail serves. The answer, as you might have guessed, is something or someone greater than oneself.

When the young prince took a piece of salmon his thinking was ego-centered: "I'm hungry, there's no one around, why not?" He was untrue to his own sense of what was right -- in the grandiosity of youth, we often do things we come to regret, that wound us for years. Healing comes about with the recognition that living for ourselves, to appease the demands of our own appetites, isn't a sufficient basis for a meaningful approach to life. There has to be something more, something that transcends us, and gives life significance, savor, and meaning. The mature Parsifal could ask the question because he'd gained confidence, learned to provide for and care for himself, and knew what it meant to have his own questions.

When a woman or man finds a center outside themselves, whatever they choose that to be, they are in a position to gain the perspective to help identify what is truly important for them. Misplaced priorities can be clarified and the regrets associated with what is beyond recovery can be addressed, mourned and let go. The consequence of this curative process is a feeling function that can actually serve, rather than oppose us by generating weariness, anxiety, and depression. Uncovering and befriending our capacity for feeling enables us to become more human, more humane, more the persons we'd like to believe we are.

Or have always wanted to be.

The Fisher King: The Nature of the Problem

When The Fisher King is mentioned, most people think you're referring to the 1991 film starring Robin Williams and Jeff Bridges. Williams portrays a delusional derelict, tormented by the memory of his wife's death and Bridges is a former disc jockey struggling with guilt over a terrible mistake. Together, they work toward healing. The fairy tale, however, taks us in a different direction, albeit to the same goal. It is a powerful tale of masculine growth, wounding, and the attainment of maturity.

Once upon a time, there was a young prince riding about, doing deeds of knight errantry. One day he stumbled across a camp in the woods where a fire was burning with salmon on a spit. Seeing no one around, he was hungry, the salmon smelled wonderful, so he reached for a piece. It was so hot, it burnt his fingers and he dropped it. Putting his fingers in his mouth, as anyone might do, he got a taste of the salmon. This wounded him so badly that he was in agony the rest of his life, up to his final three days. Eventually, he became king of the realm, but his suffering was so great that he could not govern and the kingdom languished. The only time his pain became bearable was when he went fishing, so that's how he spent his days, fishing in a boat in the castle moat. Hence, the name, Fisher King.

In some way, the young prince was stricken at the point of his masculinity. Other versions of the story have him wounded by an arrow in the testicle or injured in the thigh when the campers return. In any case, his ability to be generative was affected and the wound left him feeling cold throughout the remainder of his life. The German version describes him as too ill to live and yet, unable to die. The King's wound represents impairment in his feeling function. 

Feeling is what gives life meaning, joy, and creates a sense of purpose and fulfillment. When feeling is wounded, it is as though the flavor has gone out of life and no amount of achievement, material success, or extravagance will restore it. Furthermore, a man's "kingdom," i.e. his family, job performance, and overall well-being suffer along with him. His wife may describe him as emotionally unavailable, his children complain dad is never home. Although this kind of wounding affects men at any age, it shows up most often from the mid-30s onwards.

Recent reports suggest men are more satisfied in mid-life than ever before. This makes sense from the perspective that we're generally established in a career, the kids are either in or soon will be in college, and we have new possibilities ahead of us. However, men I know and have known -- doctors, attorneys, corporate officers, teachers, ministers, and blue collar workers -- all admit, when the news media has gone home and we're being completely honest, to an inner sense of emptiness despite all they possess. There just doesn't seem to be enough doing to fill up what's missing. They know they have opportunities or feel they should, and they're mystified over the fact that attaining the American Dream has left them wondering, "Is this all there is?"

We'll get to the cure tomorrow; for now, we have to address symptoms. Just as for the young king, fishing is our treatment of choice, speaking metaphorically. Whatever puts a man in touch with his inner self will do. It may be writing, music, running, or walking the dog. It doesn't matter what form it takes as long as it permits a man to get a feeling for what's going on under the surface of all his activity.

For some men, awareness of the interior self is more accessible by noticing how their bodies feel. It may be a tightness in the gut, persistent muscle aches, disrupted sleep, loss of sex drive, or an ongoing sense that something isn't right. What the mind can't express, the body will. However we approach it, healing the feeling function begins with the knowledge that something is wrong and gain that insight by paying attention to ourselves. Men can be resistant: at times it takes a crisis to get us off the dime, but once we're listening, there's hope.



(Creative Commons image by Jeff Kubina via Flickr)